


Take it Off

by tresa_cho



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Action/Adventure, Coda, Gen, OOA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tresa_cho/pseuds/tresa_cho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to the end of s8, where the team comes up with a plan to save Agent Washington. And by team, I mean Tucker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take it Off

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write the first time Tucker sees Wash ooa, so I did.

“Oh thank god,” Tucker said. He bent over his knees as the Reds shouted over the edge of the cliff at that son of a bitch. “Simmons is unbearable without his husband.”

Simmons and Sarge argued with each other the best way to bring the yellow guy up the mountain, and Tucker straightened. He ached in places he didn’t even know existed. Like his knees. And elbows. Who knew there were muscles there?

A choked gasp caught his attention. He spun, and remembered Wash had taken a pretty severe beat down in the fight. Like, grenades and knives and shit. Tucker jogged to him despite the serious pain in his ribs, and leaned over. “Wash, dude, you okay?”

Wash was on his hands and knees, and even in the armor, Tucker could see him shake. A steady drip of red splashed from his visor to the snow. “Holy shit, you’re bleeding really bad.”

Tucker dropped to his knees as Wash let out a slightly hysterical laugh. He slapped at Tucker when he reached for Wash’s helmet. “No, no-”

“I’ve gotta get it off you, dude. You’re gonna drown.” Tucker pushed Wash’s hands down and snapped his helmet clasps open. He wrestled Wash’s hands down and yanked the helmet off, tossing it over his shoulder. “Whoa.”

Whatever he had been expecting, this was… so far from _it_ he wasn’t even sure what to think. Not that he thought about what Wash looked like under his armour- the guy was a grade A douchebag on his best days- but this was not it.

Wash blinked as sunlight struck him, looking at Tucker but not focusing. Somewhere, in the back of Tucker’s mind, he knew that was bad. He couldn’t see anything past the strong line of Wash’s jaw, and the bleached tips of his hair. “You’re Asian!?”

“That’s racist,” Simmons said, coming up behind him. “Holy shit.”

Wash’s arms crumpled, and he bent over himself in the snow, breathing wet and hard. The motion revealed the second colour of his hair, buzzed close to the skull and black. It also exposed a line of scars that disappeared into the back of his armour.

Tucker ripped his own helmet off and dropped it in the snow. “Where are you hurt?”

“Where isn’t he hurt?” Grif approached from behind Simmons. “Dude took like, five grenades to the face.”

“I hate to break up the grenade party, but we’ve got reinforcements coming in,” Sarge said. He cocked his shotgun. “We can take ‘em.”

“Sir, it’s most likely the force sent to collect Agent Washington,” Simmons pointed out. “And the Meta. They’re going to be trained soldiers. And a lot of them.”

“They’re coming to arrest me,” Wash said. He spat blood onto the snow and dragged in a shallow breath. “And I’m fucking Korean, you asshole.”

He didn’t sound different outside his helmet. Tucker couldn’t stop staring at him. As if sensing his stare, Wash twisted to glare back. Tucker swallowed hard. “What happens if they arrest you?”

“If I’m lucky, I go back to jail,” Wash said. He dragged a hand over his mouth and glanced at the blood on his glove.

“And if you’re not lucky?” Grif asked.

A pause. “Firing squad.”

“Oh hey! We did one of those. It was Not Fun,” Grif said, uselessly.

“They’ll kill you?” Tucker pried one of his pockets open (his armor was crushed in some places from the fight, it was harder than it sounded) and managed to free a blister pack of painkillers. He snapped it open and held them out to Wash. Wash glanced at them suspiciously, but accepted them. “Why would they do that?”

“Loose ends. And I failed.” Wash dry-swallowed the pills with effort, still curled over himself, protecting his wounds.

And this. This was unacceptable. Tucker felt it burn in his chest, over the pain of possibly bruised ribs and maybe a bullet hole somewhere. “No.”

Everyone looked at him, surprised. Tucker himself was taken aback briefly, shocked the word had escaped. Tucker closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No! That’s fucking stupid, okay. You didn’t fail your bullshit mission. It was bullshit to begin with! The Meta turned on you, what were you supposed to do? Let him kill you? Let him kill us?”

“Nobody’s _that_ heartless,” Wash said through clenched teeth. And if Church wasn’t here anymore, then Tucker had to make the call. And he could make this call. This was easy.

“You’re coming with us,” Tucker said.

“What?” Sarge barked.

“What?” Wash echoed a second behind.

“Doc! Get the fuck over here- What are you doing?” Tucker twisted in the snow. Doc was on his way over already and quickened his pace. He dropped next to Wash and shined his stupid plasma thing in Wash’s eyes. Tucker grabbed at Wash’s armor, reaching for the clasps holding it together.

“Stop.” Wash shoved at him weakly. Tucker brushed his arms away and released the snaps on Wash’s chestplate. Peeling it off the freelancer’s chest and back revealed worrying amounts of blood.

“Wow. That is a worrying amount of blood,” Doc said. Wash snorted, and then grimaced in pain.

Tucker glanced at the sky, at the incoming ships. And then back down, at Wash bleeding out in the snow in front of an abandoned base in the ass end of nowhere. Wash’s blood was on his hands. All over his gloves and arm guards. “We’ll put you in Church’s old armor. God knows he’s not using it anymore.”

“Suck it, Blues,” Sarge said. Tucker spun and glared at him. “Ah. Too soon?”

“I think so, Sarge,” Simmons said. “Maybe we should go wait for the cops. We can distract them while Wash changes.”

“Don’t. Touch me,” Wash ground out when Doc tried to press his med-device at him. He slapped it down, and Tucker grabbed his arm.

“Hey. _Hey_. Look at me. You’re gonna put on Church’s armor, and you’re coming back to base with us. Let Doc close those wounds and stop fighting with us.” Tucker glared at him, waited as he blinked blood out of his eye and finally, for the first time since his helmet came off, looked into Tucker’s eyes. Wash’s eyes were green, Tucker noted with a vague sense of hysteria.

“Okay,” Wash said. He exhaled sharply. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Doc sealed the worst of the wounds, and he and Tucker hauled Wash to his feet. Caboose and Grif stripped the Church-bot of it’s armor, while Tucker skimmed down Wash’s remaining armor clasps. The armor fell away swiftly and clumped into the snow, leaving Wash shivering and covered in blood.

“Any year now, Caboose.” Tucker shouted. A chestplate cut through the air and smacked him in the face. “Ow! Son of a bitch!”

Wash snorted, and when Tucker glanced at him, he saw his lips curled up in a smirk. Tucker grabbed the armor in hand and shoved it at Wash. Out of armor, Wash’s muscles flexed as he accepted the chestplate. He wasn’t a meathead, not huge beyond belief. But he wasn’t scrawny either. He looked strong. He was strong.

Tucker helped stuff Wash into Church’s armor, and they were just clicking their helmets back into place when the army showed up. Tucked placed a hand at the small of Wash’s back as the questioning started, and ignored Wash’s glance in his direction.


End file.
